User blog:SodaCat/The Silent Bullhorn.
Based on eight unseen characters in Bully. Set in 1991 in Bullworth Academy. Kolbe is not to be confused with Seth Kolbe, rather his father, I guess. Though, now that I think about it, this being in the 90s clashes with Crabblesnitch later being a 50-or-so-year-old headmaster in 2006. Plot holes, plot holes... oh well. ---- “Did you get the flyers done?” Roach rolled his eyes, lazily pausing the arcade game that he was currently playing in the Boy’s Dorm. He turned to look at one of his best friends, Sean, who was sitting sideways on the sofa in the common room, long legs outstretched. He’d muted the television, and was staring back at Roach expectantly in the sunlight. “Kerns,” Roach began, his voice seasoned with a touch of amusement and patronization, “I am trying to enjoy the video game that your father ever so kindly invested in for us boys.” His voice switched back to normal, however, as soon as he noted Sean’s aggravated glare. “Dude,” he laughed, just a little bit frightened by Sean’s look, “of course I got them done! Come on, we’ll get Tim and I’ll show both of y’all right now.” Roach quit his video game, and began making his way out of the common room, turning a left on the way to his dorm room. He stopped at the first room down the hall, loudly pounding on the door twice. “Timothy!” he barked, grinning mischievously at Sean, “Get out here! I’m gonna show you and Sean here the flyers I up and made! You’ll love ‘em!” Sean jumped over the sofa’s backrest, stepping out into the hallway and immediately making eye contact with Tim. Tim sported an undershirt and school slacks that were sliding down one side of his hips, clearly having just awoken. “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing one side of his head and confirming Sean’s suspicion. “Four o’ clock, dumbass,” Sean laughed, no hostility present in his voice, “you slept through classes today. Mr. Wiggins looked like his head was gonna blow, he was so mad!” Tim chuckled and shrugged, unfazed by this new piece of information. “I can try again tomorrow.” They were interrupted by the overdramatic clearing of a throat a little bit further down the hall. Roach stuck his head out of his room door, throwing an irritated glare Sean and Tim’s way. “Men,” he said, speaking in another one of his dumb voices, “I am trying to show you my expertly made flyers! Come on! Haul ass!” Upon entering Roach’s dorm room, Tim and Sean found themselves nearly walking into a medium-sized poster. “Read it!” Roach encouraged, his voice enthusiastic and bright. “I even added quotes from the student body, to give us credibility, and all that fancy shit!” Sean took the poster from him, holding it farther away so that all three of them could crowd around and see it. “''The Silent Bullhorn'',” he read, voice skeptical, “Bullworth’s number one underground radio.” “Bullworth’s only underground radio…” Tim corrected, taking the poster from Sean and earning a ‘shush’ from Roach. “Covering everything from the latest gossip to live, real-time fights at The Hole.” Tim and Sean exchanged a look. “Come on,” Roach said, not seeing the glance between his two best friends, “read the quotes! They’re the best part.” He was clearly proud of his work. “It’s the best show in the whole damn academy,” Tim read, his voice approving, until he reached the name citation. “Tim Collins.” “Honest, trustworthy, and fuckin’ funny coverage all year long,” Sean continued, pausing, “…Sean Kerns.” “Slicker than pig’s snot on a radiator,” Tim finished, looking up at Roach, “Roach Hartley.” The three of them were silent for a couple beats, and then two hands reached out to smack Roach upside the dirty blond hair covered head. “''Ow!” the shortest of the three boys exclaimed, “What the hell was ''that for?!” “You were supposed to make flyers that we could hand out during school time, you redneck dumbass!” Tim scolded, shooting Roach an irritated glare. He tossed the poster aside, where it landed safely on Roach’s bed. “Tell me, you idiot, how the hell are we supposed to put this poster up without any of the prefects noticing, when you wrote the words ‘underground’ and ‘radio’ plain as day for anybody—including Kolbe—to see?!” “Yeah,” Sean added, crossing his arms, “Crabblesnitch is already on our asses after that fire alarm prank you pulled last week! You think he’d hesitate to tell Kolbe?!” “Tell me, Roach,” Tim fumed, “what does your limited little hillbilly mind think is gonna happen if Kolbe finds out about The Hole?!” “They’ll shut it down for sure!” Sean exclaimed, answering for Roach. “And they’ll shut us down, too!” Tim added. The two continued, considering every possible way they could suffer repercussions upon being caught thanks to Roach’s sign. Rolling his eyes, Roach climbed on top of his bed—minding the poster—and called for their attention. “Shut the fuck up!” he laughed, looking down at his two best friends. “I ain’t that stupid,” he said, earning both an eye roll and a muttered ‘yeah right’, “I know we can’t put up a big spankin’ poster in the school, I made this one to stick in the common room.” He crossed his arms and gave them a smug look, as if he’d just outsmarted the both of them. Sean face palmed, sighing deeply and hopelessly. “The prefects have dorms in here, too, you Dallas Dimwit.” Roach chuckled, ignoring the insult. “When’s the last time you seen any of them come in here? Nah, y’all know Crabblesnitch’s startin’ to toughen up on ‘em and make ‘em stay up to make sure nobody out after curfew.” Noticing their still dubious looks, Roach hastily added, “And, I just so happened to hear Kolbe’s moving them to an in-school dorm, anyway. So there.” “And just where did you hear that?” Tim demanded, furrowing his eyebrows at Roach. Sean nodded, looking at Roach doubtfully. He didn’t completely believe Roach’s claim, but he was slightly more inclined to believe it than Tim was. “Yeah,” he said, “where did you? Or did you hear it the same time you heard him say that the students were allowed in the staff room?” “That,” Roach said, glaring directly at Sean, “was an honest mistake. This I know for sure. I heard Kolbe say so myself when I was puttin’ a dead rat up in his desk drawer last week.” He stared at the other two, his expression smug, eyes proud. After a couple beats, the three of them burst into laughter, all signs of any tension between them gone. Roach jumped down from his bed, joining the other two. “Alright, Roach,” Tim chuckled, ruffling Roach’s hair, “fair and square. Let’s see those flyers, now.” “Wait, you wanted those done by today?” Tim and Sean froze, their eyes squaring in on Roach. “The big fight’s on Friday,” Tim said, his voice just a touch higher—as it was whenever his fury began building up—“and you didn’t finish the one goddamn thing we asked you to d—” “Aw, calm down Tim,” Roach chuckled, making his way over to his desk, “I was just pullin’ your leg. I got ‘em right here.” *** They were early to the fight, they always were. After all, they had radio equipment to set up, bets to place, and reports to organize before the fight began. Classes had let out only an hour earlier. The entire week leading up to today, Friday, was spent handing out Roach’s captivating—yet discreet—flyers, taking notes on school gossip, and answering the whispered questions the other students had regarding the radio show. They didn’t need to carry anything down into the school basement, all their equipment waited for them right under the commentary desk off the side of The Hole. It waited for them in the same two boxes it had ever since they’d started the radio show in seventh grade, back when there was four of them, rather than three. “Who’s fighting today?” Sean asked, pulling out his notepad and opening it to a clean sheet of paper. He drew out a T-chart, and looked at the other two boys, waiting for a reply. Tim pulled out a box of chalk from under the desk, looking over at Sean. “Barry Harrington’s supposed to be fighting some kid named… Joe Anderson,” he replied, leaning over Roach’s shoulder to see the notebook he was holding. Sean stopped, turning to face Tim and Roach. “…Who the hell’s Joe Anderson?” Roach shrugged, looking down at his notebook as well. “I ain’t none too sure, but I checked with three different kids and all of ‘em said the exact same thing. ‘Pparently this kid’s been hittin’ on Harrington’s girl, y’know, that cheerleader Lisa Connors?” Tim shook his head, turning back to face the wall. “I heard this Anderson kid got with Lisa, that’s why Harrington’s so mad.” Sean shook his head, siding with Roach. “Why would Lisa Connors get with some kid nobody’s ever even heard of?” he asked, eyes flickering between both of them, “It just doesn’t make any sense.” “Who cares,” Tim replied, rolling his eyes, “our job isn’t to question the shit that goes on in this dump. Our job’s to report it so that everybody who’s nosy can find out and give us a good word.” “Yeah,” Roach agreed, turning to face the wall as well, “anyway, I wanna know who won this week!” “Then let me see the notebook, dipshit,” Tim snarled, snatching said book from Roach. Quickly, he counted up the bullet points—each containing pieces of gossip, along with the name of the boy who’d collected the information—before adding a tally underneath Sean’s name. “''What!” Roach exclaimed, the whine in his voice evident, “Sean ''always ''wins! I wanna win for once!” “Quiet!” Tim roared, quickly adding another tally underneath John’s name, “You, Sean, and I all know ''John wins. Sean’s the runner up, you got it?” A blanket of silence draped over the three of them. Roach felt his face burn with embarrassment. How could he forget John won? John always won. Looking at each other, the trio silently agreed. John would always be in the lead. He would always be the radio host role model. What better way to honor their fallen best friend? Roughly an hour later, or maybe just a little bit over, students began filing into The Hole. Barry Harrington conversed with his Prep friends near the entrance to the fighting ground, but this other kid—this nobody, Joe Anderson—was nowhere to be seen. The boys had gone live about a half hour ago, reporting on the school’s gossip. The fight would be the next priority, of course, they’d ring the bell as soon as the gossip report was over. The chatter of the crowd of students in The Hole was customary, merely background noise to the radio show. The students unable to attend the fight would be listening intently in their dorms, hanging on to every word the trio said. “Well, that just about brings us to the end of the gossip section,” Tim announced, his radio voice knowledgeable and strong. “Ready to start, Roach?” Sean asked, leaning over to look at him. Roach nodded, excited, and ready for his favorite part of Hole shows. Pushing away his microphone, he picked up the bullhorn from underneath the commentary desk and switched it on, making his way down into the center of The Hole. Clearing his throat, he held the bullhorn up to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, loud enough for the microphones over on the desk to pick it up, “dorks and morons, tonight we’ll have a very special fight, right here, in The Hole!” The crowd roared at the introduction, emotions already beginning to ride high. Roach made his way over to Barry, who was climbing into The Hole upon hearing the announcement of the fight’s commencement. He grinned down at Roach, who’d slung his arm around Barry’s broad shoulders, and then grinned up at the cheering crowds, offering short waves. “Here we have, leader of the Preps, Bullworth’s number one boxing champion, the one, the only, Bartholomew “Barry” Harrington the Third!” The crowd went wild as Barry flung one fist up, pumping it and nodding to the cheering spectators surrounding The Hole. Roach looked around, nervous, waiting for this other kid to show up. He struck an unsure glance over at Tim and Sean, the wait wouldn’t come off nicely on air. Tim and Sean, noting Roach’s hesitation, frantically pointed over to the opening of The Hole. Roach followed their gestures, eyes meeting a skinny, lanky boy—much smaller than Barry in every way possible—climbing down The Hole’s ladder. “A-And over here,” Roach began, doubtful of whether or not this really was ''Barry’s opponent, “we have the mysterious, the unknown, the anonymous… Joe Anderson!” The crowd went wild for Joe, too. Roach could make anyone sound appealing and interesting when he was introducing them. Roach rapidly made his way over to Joe, slinging his arm around Joe’s thin shoulders just as he had Barry’s, and walked Joe over to Barry. Roach performed a quick scan of Joe’s presentation, he was dressed in a loose fitting ''astronomy club vest, and school slacks that had to be more or less tied to his waist with a belt. He had to be at least a foot smaller than Barry, who looked tough, mean, and strong in his snugly fitted Aquaberry vest. “Alright boys,” Roach said, turning to face Barry and Joe, “we’re gonna have a nice, clean, old fashioned fight tonight. Like always, the use of firecrackers and bottle rockets is strictly prohibited—we don’t want to start any fires that could get Kolbe even remotely close to finding this place. And, as usual, you take whatever gets dished out to ya in the fight like a man. No runnin’ off to the nurse right after and bawlin’, unless you got a damn good reason to, and a damn good excuse to give ‘er as to how you got it.” He beamed up at the crowd of students watching, his charisma instantly winning them over. “As for you, ladies and gentlemen, what happens in The Hole stays in The Hole! Be careful what y’all say in front of the likes of teachers and prefects—don’t forget, loose lips sink ships!” Roach made his way over to the ladder, climbing out, and once he was safely out of the fighting ground, he pointed to Sean and Tim. “Alright boys, sound the bell, and let the fight begin!” The fight was bloody from the moment that Sean sounded the wrestling bell. Roach, Sean, and Tim, all intent on reporting the battle, watched with an interest matching that of the rest of the students. Tim and Sean’s pencils raced over their notebooks, between the three of them, they were the only ones with legible handwriting. Their notes would be broadcasted the next day, in a customary Saturday night recap show. “Looks like we’re nearing the end of tonight’s fight, and I gotta say, Sean, looks like Barry’s gonna be taking this one,” Tim said into his microphone. Sean laughed, his tone light, despite the disturbingly violent and one-sided fist fight happening in front of him. “I gotta agree with you there, Timmy, but hey—leaves open a possible revenge fight for Anderson to take, huh? Whattaya think, Roach?” Roach, however, remained too focused on what was going on in the fighting ground to offer a comment to the show’s listeners. He didn’t speak until he received a hard nudge into his side, courtesy of Tim. “He’s out cold,” he said, as if on autopilot, “and Harrington’s still kicking him.” Sean, caught off guard by Roach’s sudden statement, leaned a little closer, holding his microphone close to his mouth. “Is… Is there blood coming out of Anderson’s mouth?” “His mouth,” Tim nodded, “his nose…” A new silence had taken the once roaring crowd as the students watched Barry’s frenzy of kicks be delivered into Joe’s stomach. Joe kept gushing blood in response to each blow Barry delivered, completely helpless to the hell being unleashed onto him. “He’s gonna kill him,” Roach mumbled, before jumping over the desk. “Roach, no!” Tim roared, throwing his hand out to grab his friend, but missing Roach’s untucked shirt tail by a couple of inches. As he did so, the radio transmitter spilled over the desk’s edge. The show was off air in an instant. Roach paid no mind to him, bolting over to the fighting ground’s entrance, and leaping down into hit. He headed straight towards the “fighting” pair. “Barry, stop!” Roach screeched, waving his arms frantically in attempt to get Barry’s attention. But Barry just kept kicking. He was completely oblivious to Roach’s presence. Roach raced over to Barry, just barely managing to get a hold of Barry’s bloodstained Aquaberry vest. The dark crimson contrasted brightly against the baby and sky blues. “Barry, I said n—!” Barry whipped around, his hand curled. His fist made contact with Roach’s temple before Roach could even finish speaking. Roach caught a glimpse of Barry’s eyes, which were clouded over and absent, before blacking out. *** It was almost midnight by now. Sean and Tim stumbled around in their confusion. The ambulance lights at the front gate of the school did nothing to clue them in. Rather, it attracted them, like flies to a streetlight. They came to a halt on the sidewalk right outside the school, just barely managing to see a familiar pair of Timberlands be wheeled into the back of the ambulance on a gurney. The doors of the ambulance were shut before either of them could see who the shoe’s owner was. But they didn’t need to see to know. “I have not the slightest idea how this could have happened,” the infamous prefect, Ralph Crabblesnitch commented to one of the paramedics, “there have been no reports of any sort of fight on the campus the entire night!” Sean inched closer, straining to listen in to the conversation. Slowly, he started making connections in his mind, building a timeline of events in his head. Maybe… Maybe Crabblesnitch, or the paramedic he was talking to, would mention something about Roach. Maybe he could get clued in as to what Roach’s condition was. He drowned out the chatter of the students behind him, chatter that was surely meaningless. With words like “coma” and “life support” floating amongst it, it had to be meaningless. Tim’s breathing, meanwhile, had become uneven. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see Sean, or Crabblesnitch, or the ambulance, not anymore. He couldn’t see the school nurse, with the help of a paramedic, tending to Joe Anderson’s intense but not quite fatal injuries. He couldn’t hear any of the chatter about Roach being in a coma, or needing life support, or that the paramedics had agreed it was likely that Roach would never wake up. No, he could only hear and see Harrington. Harrington, and his stupid fucking prep friends, high-fiving and… and laughing over the night’s events. Over Harrington winning. “Two in one night, Barry!” one of them laughed, high-fiving Barry. “You sure showed those dorks who the boss is!” Barry laughed, smug as always. “That little…” he snarled before continuing, “''reporter'' trash had it coming. He should have known better than to get in the way of a Harrington.” Trash. At that, Tim snapped. “''He did it!” he screeched, shooting up and throwing himself at Barry. “''He’s ''the reason Roach’s gonna die! He’s the reason John killed himself! It’s ''his fault!'' It’s his fault!” His hands punched wildly at Barry, trying to hit him anywhere, ''everywhere. Trying to make him pay for it, for everything. “This pauper’s gone mental!” one of the preps shouted, dragging Sean out of his dream-like trance. He watched, speechless, as his last surviving best friend hysterically tried to attack the Preppies’ leader. “Someone call the Happy Volts orderlies!” Sean turned at the voice of one of the paramedics. He didn’t see another one of the paramedic team race over and—with the help of none other than Head Prefect Ralph Crabblesnitch—sedate Tim, who went down, his cries weakened but still coherent. He repeated over and over, until everything faded into black, “It’s his fault… it’s his fault…” Category:Blog posts